


Clive Picks Flowers

by last-time-travel (Panadopolis)



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Angst and Feels, Flowers, Gen, Picking Flowers, Post-Unwound Future, Unwound Future Spoilers, attempt at flower symbolism, cemetery/graveyard, i almost cried while writing this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:34:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25227631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panadopolis/pseuds/last-time-travel
Summary: Clive bumps into a old friend while searching for flowers for his loved ones.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Clive Picks Flowers

“You won’t find what you’re lookin’ for in there.”

I pause, hand midway to the door of the flower shop.

It takes several heartbeats to place the voice. “…Shipley?”

Turning around confirms my suspicion. The years have not been kind to the former gardener; several noticeable scars line his chin, streaks of grey mar his hair, and his once-slim physique is more plump than ever.

“The flowers in there won’t hold up snuff. No-one knows how to properly care for ‘em nowadays,” Shipley says gruffly. “I’ll take ya somewhere wi’ the good ones.”

I hesitate. I can’t bear to force myself upon the professor, or Spring and Cogg, or even Shipley after what I’ve done. I’m not worthy of their company.

Nevertheless, my curiosity overtakes me; I nod, and fall into step behind Shipley.

“Long time no see, Master Dove!” Shipley calls as we walk. “How’ve ya been?”

My silence speaks volumes.

“Ah, of course, forgive my presumption… they must’ve let ya out early for good behaviour?”

“Unfortunately.” I do not tell him of being released from prison, only to wind up in another. I do not tell him of the psychiatric ward I must stay in for my own safety, of the pains I needed to take just to be permitted to wander the city for a few hours, of the plainsclothesmen tailing my every move. I certainly do not tell of the stares and whispers I endured on the way here.

Shipley tactfully changes the subject. “The mistress used to tell me of sneaking off from the manor to pick flowers as a wee little lass. I’m takin’ ya to one of her favourite spots. Nice and secluded, just as you’d like.”

I murmur my thanks.

“…Are they for the mistress, or yer parents?”

“Both,” I say quietly.

The field is at the edge of a wood, sprawling and dotted with colourful flowers. It is the kind of place where one could spend a carefree afternoon, a place meant for picnicking and quiet contemplation. The kind of place my burdens ensured I would never enjoy again.

I bend down and pluck at the flowers. They are gentle and delicate, shuddering at the slightest touch. So fragile, I fear they will wither in my very hands.

I surely looked quite undignified as I squatted in that field. But I do not feel embarrassed; in fact it puts me in mind of happier days and memories long past. I fondly remember picking at wildflowers (or, less charitably, weeds) growing in cracks in the pavement with Mama; likewise the time I was caught picking roses from Lady Dove’s own garden, intended as her Mother’s Day gift. (Shipley himself had caught me, though I wasn’t so much as scolded; in fact, there was many a hearty laugh that day.)

“Here, I’m finished,” I call. I have all I can carry, and more in my blazer pockets besides.

Shipley nods. “Shall I accompany you back?”

“No. I prefer to be alone.”

Shipley grunts in acknowledgement. “You always did prefer solitude, Master Dove.”

The walk to the cemetery is a lonely one. I duck along side streets, preferring to avoid others whenever possible.

The cemetery itself is peaceful and quiet. The only one I shall visit today; it is a perverse irony that I am lucky enough to have my biological and adopted mother buried within the same grounds.

Lady Dove has a marble mausoleum in her honour. Long-forgotten lessons in etiquette and the symbolism of flowers drift into memory; for her I leave violets (for devotion and modesty), primroses (for love), and bluebells (for constancy and generosity).

Mama and Papa have simple stone graves side by side, just as they would have wanted. To my surprise there are several flowers freshly laid; doubly surprising that someone else should remember this painful date seared into my memory.

The blue hyacinth (Lady Dove’s favourite) with the small pocket watch must be from Spring and Cogg; the beautiful crimson rose betrays Shipley’s caring hand; and it is no puzzle who left the black tulip tied in red ribbon, with accompaniment in blue and orange.

I scatter my own offerings across the grave. Teardrops fall.

Before I locked myself away in my underground city, I would come here every anniversary of their death. I’d spend my hours talking softly to Mama and Papa, pretending they were still here to listen.

Today, no words came. It’s pointless to say “I’m back”, or “Forgive me”, or “I'm sorry”; all I have is my blackened past behind me, and a long road to atonement ahead.

So instead I weep. It is almost a relief to give into raw emotion, after burying my grief under a veneer of anger and vengeance for so long.

I weep, longer and harder and freer than I have in years.


End file.
